I Saw Daddy Shooting Santa Clause
by Rinne
Summary: The second Christmas after the fire John discovers how some customs have to change. John, Dean and Sam. COMPLETE


Title: I saw Daddy shooting Santa Clause 

Rating: All audiences

Spoilers: None, I don't think really.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and am not being paid.

Pairings/Characters: None, John, Dean, Sam

A/N: Wee! Winchester fic. Huge thank you to lunardreamed and freelance for betaing.

Summary: The second Christmas after the fire John discovers how some customs have to change.

John hoisted a sleepy, yet hyper, Dean up on his hip, ready to go through their pre-present tradition. "Santa didn't come this year, Dean."

Dean turned serious eyes to John's own as his bottom lip began to tremble. "Is it because I've been bad? I didn't mean to be bad, Daddy; I'll play more with Sammy – even if they're baby games - and I'll clean up my toys and eat my broccoli-"

John put a finger on Dean's lips, horrified at his reaction. It seemed like Dean had completely forgotten the joke they always shared before present opening. "Shh." He hugged the now crying boy closer and walked around his bed in the motel room to their tiny Christmas tree. "Guess I was wrong; Santa did come."

Dean lifted his head from John's shoulder and gave him a tear-stained look that John read as "Why would you mess with me like that, especially about Christmas presents?" before turning in John's arms to look at the tree. And the very pathetic pile of presents surrounding it.

"Did Santa bring presents for Sammy, too?"

"He sure did, Dean."

Dean sniffled and rubbed his hand over his face. "Where are they?"

John grimaced. He'd really hoped that Dean would be a model child and figure that Santa was poor this year or something. He hadn't questioned their pathetic Christmas the previous year, but he hadn't really been completely with it at the time. This year he was acting like a normal six-year-old when it came to presents: they're all mine and, if they aren't, they should be.

"Here's the thing: now Sammy's old enough to get presents, Santa has to divide what's for our family up between you and him."

Dean looked over at Sammy's bed before turning back to look at John with a quizzical expression. "I have to share my presents with Sammy?"

"Sort of, kiddo."

"And if I have another brother or sister, I'll have to share with them?"

John closed his eyes briefly and pressed his lips tightly together. Dean could have no idea how much that question had hurt. The plan had always been three kids, maybe four if he could convince Mary that middle child syndrome was a bad idea. He opened his eyes to find Dean looking at him, his lip wobbling.

"It's okay, Dean," John said softly, holding him close and trying to push his emotions down again.

"Daddy?" Dean squirmed slightly in his arms, his mood largely forgotten in wake of the prospect of opening presents. "Can we wake Sammy up and open presents?"

John kissed him on the head and put him down on the floor. "You can open one of your presents, but I don't want to wake Sammy yet." A cranky twenty-month-old was something that John really didn't need to deal with this early in the morning.

Dean forgot all about Sammy and rushed over to the presents, picking up the biggest one and waving it at John. John smiled and nodded and Dean set to demolishing it. He'd now have a Lego helicopter to play with.

* * *

John was dozing, propped up on pillows on the bed. Dean had been playing with his new helicopter, quietly making 'brrr' noises as he flew it around Sammy. Sammy's large blocks lay forgotten in front of him as he happily tried to grab the rapidly moving flying object.

When Dean stopped making the noise, John opened his eyes and checked on them. Dean had put the helicopter down out of Sammy's reach and seemed to be studying his brother, before turning in John's direction. John quickly shut his eyes - unsure why he was doing so - but something told him that Dean was thinking up some adventure that he wouldn't try if John was awake. It was better that he tried it now, when John could save the day if it ended disastrously, than when John couldn't. Because, while John could try and supervise his sons every moment of the day, the reality was that he had to sleep and the boys' sleeping patterns were slightly different to his own. Dean was often up and playing quietly before John was awake.

John opened his eyes to a slit, figuring that Dean would think the coast was clear now, and discovered that Dean wasn't quite in his field of view. Sammy's happy 'talking', which consisted of "dadadada" and "dededede", with an occasional "tetame teet" for variety, had masked his footsteps. John had worried about his slow development - Dean had said his first full sentence at ten months and walked so much earlier than Sammy was - but after a little research had found that every child was distinctly different.

John finally spotted Dean when he staggered towards Sammy with their trashcan. He placed it on the floor beside Sammy and tried to pick Sammy up. Unfortunately, being six-years-old, he could only lift Sammy a few inches off the floor before having to put him down again. John had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what Dean was up to, but he wanted to know what Dean would try now that his plan had been thwarted.

Dean stood for a few seconds, looking around, before turning the trashcan on its side. It rolled and he grabbed it to stop it, but it started rolling the other way. He grabbed a couple of Sammy's blocks and put them either side of the bin, pinning it in place. John repressed a chuckle.

"Sammy," Dean said softly and tapped the bin. He held out his arms to Sammy, who took that as a cue to crawl towards him. He could walk quite well, but still preferred crawling as his primary mode of transportation if he was in a hurry.

Sammy crawled past the bin to Dean standing beside it, and Dean tried to direct him back towards it. When it looked like Sammy had finally gotten the idea, John decided enough was enough. Now came the fun part: giving Dean a telling off without cracking up with laughter.

"Dean Winchester! Why are you trying to put your brother in the trash?"

Dean looked up at him, a stricken expression on his face. He really had to harden his heart to that look; otherwise his children would end up spoiled little brats.

As Dean continued to stare at him with a stricken expression he added another item to the list of things that John Winchester Should Never Say: _Santa has to divide what's for our family up between you and Sammy._ The list was made up of such wisdom as: _Santa didn't come this year, Dean. I shot him at the top of the street_ (only recently added to the list) and _Broccoli is good for you_ (on the list for quite a while).

He should have gone with _Santa knew that the presents had to fit in the Impala, so he didn't bring as many_. But, then, he'd probably have found Dean reading a newspaper, looking to trade the Impala in for a larger car.

John grabbed the trashcan off the floor and placed it back in the corner. Sammy squealed slightly with annoyance as the bin was taken out of his reach, and then turned his attention to his brother, grabbing hold of Dean's leg to pull himself up. He stood for a few seconds, before walking several steps towards John, overbalancing and landing on his butt. That aspect of learning to walk had taken John a while to get used to. He kept expecting Sammy to burst into tears from hurting himself, but it seemed that the diaper provided enough padding.

As if Sammy's steps had provided Dean with the impetus, he burst out into noisy sobs, turned away from John and ran towards the bathroom. John took a few quick strides forward and gathered him up in his arms, still not sure how to scold a child who was crying.

He needed Mary.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Dean sobbed into his shoulder, finally relaxing after trying to squirm out of John's arms.

After letting him sob for a few minutes, John said, "Look at me, Dean." Dean shook his head and tried to burrow further into John's shoulder. "Look at me." John gently forced Dean's chin up until Dean's wet eyes met his own.

"If you ever try to put Sammy in the trash again, or out with the trash, or get rid of him in any way, I'll put you in the trash. We clear?"

Dean nodded solemnly, another tear sneaking out, before whispering, "I miss Mommy. It's not Christmas without her."

"I know, kiddo. I miss her, too."

John was suddenly staggered by an impact to his legs. Sammy had run into his legs and grabbed hold of them, laughing happily. "Dada."

"You know what?" John said. Dean sniffled and looked at him expectantly. "I just heard the tickle monster arrive..."

He bent down and let Dean clamber off him. "You better run, or the tickle monster will find you!"

Dean rubbed his hand across his face, squealed and ran around behind his bed while Sammy just looked up at John, still giggling. "Oh, who's this attached to the tickle monster's leg? I think the tickle monster is going to have to start with this young man."

He picked Sammy up and pretended to toss him over his shoulder, eliciting peals of laughter from the small boy.

"Daddy!" Dean's voice was admonitory.

"What's that, little boy?" John held Sammy beside his ear. "You have a brother? A brother who likes to be tickled? And he's hiding behind the bed? You think I should just leave him alone?"

"Daddy!"

John chuckled. Dean definitely didn't like that idea. "Oh, you think we should go and attack him, too? Right then, young man, let's go."

"Dee!" Sammy loudly approved the idea as John lifted him up and set him on his shoulders. "Teetame teet!"

"No Sesame Street, Sammy!" John said with fond exasperation.

"Teetame teet!"

"Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum! I hear the giggling of a Winchester boy." John punctuated each word with a loud footstep towards Dean. After each one, there was a giggle from behind the bed. He rounded the corner of the bed and spotted Dean, sitting on the floor. John lifted Sammy off his shoulders and put him down beside Dean, before dropping down to the floor and attacking Dean. After several minutes of laughing, John stopped his tickling and growled, "Are you ready to give in, little boy?"

Dean shook his head wordlessly, still grinning.

John leant on his hand. "Well, that's too bad. Guess it means you don't get to play in the snow."

Dean's eyes lit up as he quickly said, "I give in, Daddy."

John laughed. "Okay, Dean. Go and get your jacket, gloves and snow hat, buddy."

Dean stood up and turned to go, before stopping. "You need help with Sammy?"

John shook his head. "I've got him."

"Okay."

Dean ran around the bed as Sammy sat down heavily on John, grinning.

"You want to play in the snow, Sammy?" John asked, as he listened to Dean's clomping.

"Tow!"

"Don't forget your boots, Dean!" John called, as he climbed off the floor, Sammy in his arms.

Dean was nowhere in sight – the bathroom door was almost shut – and Sammy's outside clothes were laid on the bed, his boots placed haphazardly beside them.

"Guess you're over that then," John muttered as he put Sammy down and picked up the jacket that Dean had placed on the bed for him.

A very large part of him wished that Dean wasn't. Some normal sibling rivalry wouldn't go astray in the Winchester household.

The bathroom door squeaked open.

"Ready, Daddy! Can I help with Sammy?"

"I've got him, dude."

Dean stood watching them for the few minutes it took for John to get Sammy dressed and then rushed ahead of John to the door.

"Okay, Dean, let's go."


End file.
